


The Beginning and the End of Everything

by harajoking



Category: South Park
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2018-02-26 04:06:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2637407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harajoking/pseuds/harajoking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stan's not around anymore, and Kyle needs to go vent to a psychiatrist. (this was a uni assignment so it's a bit OOC)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Beginning and the End of Everything

“The worst part – the absolute most sorry, sordid part of the whole affair – was that he used to be mine.

Used to, mind you. Now he won’t engage with me any further than a forced and unbearably apathetic smile – he can’t even do that anymore. But he was mine at one point. Sometimes just that fact gets me to sleep; that at one point in the recordable past I was right at the top of his love list. I was the person he would think about on loop throughout the day, I was the person he would most want to see a film with, go out to dinner with, even – god forbid – _sleep_ with. He was mine. And now? Nothing. I’m less important to him than that copy of _The Catcher in the Rye_ he left in my room. He used to hate reading, he’d never seen the point to it, so I was getting him back into it and all, but now he hates it again. I know he does because he didn’t read _To Kill a Mockingbird_ for English class, and then he had to get his notes off that git Clyde Donovan, and Clyde doesn’t usually just give notes away, if you know what I mean. But anyway, anyone who loves reading gets to the end of _To Kill a Mockingbird_ , but he doesn’t care anymore. It just kills me. It really does. His name was – is – Stan, and he slipped past me a while ago, and can’t ever come back. But then again, he didn’t even slip past me, because I had _him_. _I_ had him. I _had_ him _._

The other worst part of it all is that he had a crush on me. An actual physical crush on me for a whole six months during the year before last, and I didn’t even notice him. He wanted me before I even really knew who he was, goddammit, and I just sat there like a wet fish when I could have had everything I want now. Hell, if I could have my time over with him I would have swept him right off his feet then and there. He would be so happy. I would be too, come to think of it. But that’s just an afterthought really. I don’t know. I guess that just knowing that I had an opportunity and I didn’t even think of taking it is what really kills me.”

“And how long did you go out for? Do you mind if I light a cigarette?”

“No Ma’am, go for your life. Well, we went out for a whole three months, the longest and best three months of my life, and we had a thing for a while before that. It started in August last year.”

“How did you meet?”

“Through school, I guess. We were in the same class for English and history. I mean, really I’ve known him my entire life – you know, its hard to not know everyone in this town”

The woman looks down at the clipboard, then back to me. She doesn’t say anything, save for scribbling ‘present tense’ on her clipboard where I can see. It just makes me nervous, and I feel the silence clog up. My leg starts bouncing out of nervous habit. She still doesn’t speak, so I fill the void for her.

“Well…” I swallow. I’m not really sure how much I want to give away. No one else knows how I really feel, not even my mother. I look around at the white walls and framed children’s drawings. A stack of books sits next to the Kleenex Max pack in front of me, with awful titles like ‘ _The Seven Habits of Highly Effective Teenagers’_ and ‘ _Secrets of the Adolescent Mind: a Professional Opinion’_. The room smells like must and bleach – the whole thing is thoroughly bland and uninspiring, but I reason that, as long as my personality is kept within the confines of this horrible room, I will be OK.

“Um, I have a thing… written. It’s just, you know, about him – you told me to do it up?” I place a folded page on her desk, but she pushes it back to me and tells me to read it out loud.

“What? I’m not going to read this out loud. You only said I had to write it.”

“Sorry.” She doesn’t seem very sorry.

Fuck. I sound like a massive dick in this. I decide there is no reasonable way out, so I clear my throat and tentatively begin reading.

     “Somehow, through all the hurt and the horror and everything that God has fucked up on Earth, He made it all up when we got Stan. He was the most captivating person I ever knew. Whether it was something in his rarely occurring smile, or in the way he moved his hands when he talked, I will never know. He was something completely and infinitely original. Each time he spoke he seemed to breathe new life into what he was saying, whatever the word, and each time he dressed or chose what to read my eyes were again disbelieving and my mind freshly corrupted. If Stan Marsh, for example, told me that his favourite novel was The Catcher in the Rye or Slaughterhouse Five, I would not let the comment pass. I would be enthralled by that book from that point on, no matter how many times I had read it, and would spend each chapter, each word, searching for whatever subtle comeliness he saw in it. If, however, Eric Cartman told me his favourite book was Catcher or Slaughterhouse Five, I would be sure to avoid any exposure to it for the rest of my days.

     But anyway, back to Stan. That’s the reason I made this dumb journal thing anyway. For Stan. He had this mesmerizing face, which was somehow captivating and striking and dry all at the same time. It rested naturally in a placid frown, but you could tell exactly how he really felt if you glanced at his eyes. He had these marvellous blue eyes, so bright and crisp and full you could very well have seen into his mind. They began to cloud over towards the end – that’s how I knew he was getting bad, even when he wouldn’t tell me. The lids sloped downwards, so his face usually looked unaggravated and docile, if not rather melancholy. When he did smile, though, it was like he had just decided that all the lights in the world should be turned on at that moment, that he was trying to transfer all the positivity and happiness from every fibre of his being to you. His smiles always made me feel a million bucks. His nose was sort of big, but soft, if you know what I mean. His hair was this amazing dark brown, almost black - the only way you could know it wasn’t black was if you had spent hours lying with him and analysing his face – which I had. He wore his black mop in a rather becoming messy style he swept over to one side. He had a strong jaw to balance it all out and keep his masculinity through his Ringo-esque eyes and long, dark lashes. Black hair and blue eyes are a rare combination.

     He had amazing skin, too. I think I was envious of that. My skin is splotchy and covered in freckles. Stan told me he liked my freckles. I told him he was just being nice. Of course, that was back when he liked me. When he wanted me. Anyway, Stan’s skin was pale, hardly ever tanned, and quite delicate: whether it was from a football tackle or chronic sleeplessness or an incredible hangover, it was quick to blossom into purples, greens, and yellows, and the poppies would stay put for weeks. He was like a kaleidoscope.”

I close my eyes. I feel like a huge part of me has disappeared, like I’ve removed an organ for fun. I shouldn’t have told her. That was only meant for me.

The woman coughs as if to indicate I made a mistake and I open my eyes. This Doctor is, in my mind, a slimy, scaly reptile of a girl. She has a huge frizzy red mop of hair in a tight bun (a bit like mine, I’m embarrassed to admit) and a nametag as old as anything reading _Dr. Verruca Hayes_ in scratchy pink writing _._ ‘ _Dr. Verruca Hayes’_ explains a lot, I thought. All the bad guys in kids’ shows are called Verruca or Veronica or something similar. They always have awful hair, too. Even Verruca Salt had bad hair, and she was loaded. Verruca and Veronica will never be the nice guys – or girls, but whatever. She swallows as she starts to talk, and I can hear whatever it is in her esophagus slide like a snail down into her belly.

“So, Brof- Broflovski. It is _Broflovski_ , right?” She speaks like old, well-cleaned brass instrument.

Kyle Broflovski nods and says, ‘Kyle Broflovski.’

“How did you hear about Stanley Marsh’s death?”


End file.
